


Liberté

by inkandpaperhowl



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperhowl/pseuds/inkandpaperhowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was inspiring, and they built barricades on the back of his ferocity, sewed flags from the fabric of his ideals, and forged spears with the steel of his resolve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liberté

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s pretend that the bridgemen were not all severely depressed, injured, beaten down, and exhausted all the time. Let’s pretend that they were passionate and dangerous and rebelled. 
> 
> It’s 7,342 words, and about twelve pages. I’m so sorry. I have no idea how it got so out of control. 
> 
> (It's okay--you really don't have to know about Les Mis to get this story. It's more...inspired by than an actual AU. It's like those terrible movies that claim to be based on their books/source material but actually have almost nothing to do with them.
> 
> (Also on Tumblr: http://ladyknightradiant.tumblr.com/post/90743008314/liberte)

They used the bridges to build the barricades, obviously. The soldiers who had spent a decade running across the solid planking were surprised when they had a hard time breaking through the wood. It had borne their weight for months, but they expected to take an axe to it and chop right through in a matter of minutes. They did not know the strength of the bridges they walked on. 

The bridgemen, however, who had carried those impossibly heavy beams on their shoulders for longer than they cared to remember, knew those bridges inside and out. They would stand forever; they would not shatter, they would not break. Much like the men who had once carried them, and now sheltered behind them with spears and fighting words and a flag they had dyed red with their own blood. 

 

Kaladin had gathered them to him like a secure room in a highstorm. He was like a Herald of old, a shining monument to the virtues he so idealized—honor, equality, and, above all, freedom. He had watched the bridgemen, already strong in body, become strong in spirit. He had heard as their listless, angry mutterings grew into a scream of rage and defiance. He had felt their need for revolution rise within himself and he had gladly swept them into his cause, one after the other until his whole bridge crew was standing resolutely during battles, demanding to be heard and helped, and discussing hotly in the barracks the finer points of rebellion and freedom and the true meaning of equality. 

The other crews were hesitant. They did not want to be whipped or killed or thrown into a chasm. They were not sure if they were willing to die for their freedom. Bridge Four had nothing to lose, but the other bridges still had farther to fall. They weren’t as desperate as Bridge Four. But suddenly, Bridge Four had a stewpot, and a fire outside their barrack at night, and suddenly there were fires in their eyes again, and the other bridges grew nervous. Teft noticed first, the jealous glances, the snide comments, the angry stares, the worried mutters. The others worried that Bridge Four would get them into trouble, that they would be dragged down with them. 

Kaladin began starting discussions at Bridge Four’s fire and then leaving once the debates were underway. He would slip quietly into the darkness and knock on the doors of different barracks. At first, there were only sullen glares and dead eyes looking at him when he entered the territory of a bridge not his own, but as he spoke, they began to blink as if emerging into the sunlight. Kaladin spoke to them quietly, intensely; his words tumbled out in fervent whispers in the darkness of the barracks, and his eyes would almost glow with passion. His voice would burn with the need for them to understand. He spoke to them for what seemed like an eternity, spending weeks flitting from bridgecrew to bridgecrew and trying desperately to convince them of the fact that the lives they had now were worse than death. It was not hard to convince them. 

Kaladin was a beacon, a guiding light, a stalwart pillar of unwavering resistance, and one only had to look at him or hear him speak to feel that he, of all people, could not fail. Men straightened up when he walked past, and beamed if he spoke to them, even briefly. He was a force of nature. It was hard to stand against him, and difficult not to get caught up in his wake. Even those men who remained reluctant to rebel were eventually dragged down by the tide that was Kaladin’s voice, pulled in like moths by the fiery light of passion in his eyes. He was inspiring, and they built barricades on the back of his ferocity, sewed flags from the fabric of his ideals, and forged spears with the steel of his resolve. 

(It wasn’t enough, of course. Idealism isn’t a particularly good shield in the face of an entire army. It’s far too insubstantial.)

Dunny’s death was the last straw. They carried him back to the warcamp at the end of the battle, strapped to the bridge with the injured. There would be no long slow decomposition in the chasms for him. He was youth embodied—he was tenor song and shyness and budding confidence. He would not suffer in the chasms that had encouraged him to bloom. They brought him back to the warcamp and they hummed mutiny as they built him pyre and set him ablaze. 

No one said anything. No one moved. Bridge Four hummed mutiny and grief until the fires burned down and the smoke began clearing in a stiff morning breeze, and then they hefted their bridge up onto their shoulders and ran back to their barracks, and planned. 

They did not go on the next bridgerun. The horns rang out, but the barracks doors all remained closed. The sergeants shouted, but the bridges lay still between the stacks of lumber, almost indistinguishable. The soldiers began advancing toward the barracks, spears lowered, wary, unsure. They needed to threaten the bridgemen to force them to run, but the bridgemen had finally called their bluff: if the soldiers killed them, who would carry the bridges? 

There was a sudden shout, as if the soldiers had crossed an invisible line, and then a flurry of movement, and the barracks doors burst open and the bridges flipped up on their sides and spears materialized from where they had been hidden in door jambs across windowsills in stacks of lumber, under overhanging roofs. The soldiers paused, stunned, scared. The bridgemen were not meant to be armed, nor were they meant to be ferocious. But here they were, and Kaladin, glowing in the sun, stood at the summit of their newly erected barricades and grinned. It was a terrifying smile, the sort of chilling smile that shows too many teeth and doesn’t reach the eyes. The sort of uncomfortable smile that promises pain. 

Moash had seen the smile before, but had not recognized it for what it was. Kaladin’s first bridge run—a terrified memory of numbing pain and bitter confusion for Kaladin—stood out in Moash’s mind for weeks after it had happened. Here was a slave who had begged to be given a spear: nothing new. Here was a slave who had been labeled with  _shash_ : nothing new. Here was a slave with  _shash_  who knew better than anyone that he was not going to get a spear and asked for one anyway: Moash noticed. 

Here was a bridgeman who ran without sandals: nothing new. Here was a bridgeman who fell into the waking numbness of fatigue before they’d even reached the battle plateau: nothing new. Here was a bridgeman who grinned fiercely as they ran toward the arrows with no protection and no hope of survival and nothing but terror written on their hearts: Moash noticed. He had thought it the grin of a madman greeting death like an old friend, but this new slave had survived, against all odds. Moash was surprised he had noticed, was surprised that something had driven him to open his eyes to something beyond his own pain and the draining knowledge that there would be another bridgerun soon. But Kaladin stuck in his mind like a thorne, festering and forcing Moash to pay attention to him. Kaladin was important, even before he cared. Moash noticed.

Moash stood below Kaladin on the barricade made of bridges and shuddered at that mirthless smile. It was not, as he had once thought, the grin of a madman. It was the grin of an angel, a vengeful, terrifying angel made of fire and love and pure determination. Moash had never been more frightened in his life. But he wanted so desperately to be closer to Kaladin, to follow this rage into battle. As a child, he had once touched a piece of iron that had been sitting in the coals of a forgefire, just to see how badly it would hurt. This felt like that. He reached out to Kaladin, knowing he was reaching out to his own destruction, and he didn’t care. He raised his spear higher and shouted his defiance louder, and the soldiers who had come to test the barricades turned and ran. 

.

“Do you see them, Moash?” Kaladin asked, climbing down from the barricade. He clapped a hand on Moash’s shoulder, and the grin on his face became more real. It touched his eyes and softened them. He was an excited boy who’s new trick had worked. But there lurked a deeper fire that promised the avenging angel of freedom was still burning in his soul. “Do you see them run, the cowards?” He laughed, and Moash laughed, too. 

“Too frightened to stand up to bridgemen who’ve only been holding their spears a month!” Drehy shouted. Everyone was shouting. There was a palpable sense of euphoria, as if all the despair of the bridgemen had been lifted like mist. They had acted for once, instead of being acted upon, and they were drunk on their own defiance, their own courage. They were drunk on the mere thought that they had actually stood up for themselves for once. 

“Too frightened to stand to Kaladin,” Rock roared over the din, and a cheer went up at Kaladin’s name. “Fire in eyes, Captain!” 

“It’s not just me,” Kaladin said, “It’s all of you, all of us. They weren’t just scared of me, they saw how many of us there were and they turned and ran. Did you see the other bridges?” he asked breathlessly. “Did you see them all rise?” There was nodded and more cheering. “They will look to us, to Bridge Four to lead them into this battle. Because it will be a battle. You can bet all the spheres we’ve got that Sadeas will whip those soldiers into facing us; they’ll be back. And we have to be ready for them. We have to stand firm. The others are not so strong as we are—they have less training, less conviction. We have to show them that the bridgecrews are not weak. We are not afraid. We are not alone—if they stand with us, we stand with them. We have to protect them and show them that they can protect themselves. They threw up their barricades today, but we have to show them that it was worth it tomorrow. We have to defend this bridge at all costs and show them that we will not stop until we are free.”

“Until we are free,” Teft echoed. 

“Until we are free.” The refrain rippled though Bridge Four like a tidal wave, the undercurrent ripping them away from the miserable rock of their slavery and setting them adrift in an ocean of hope. They gripped their spears tighter and looped their arms around each others’ shoulders, holding on to each other, to something familiar. Moash was glad that Kaladin’s hand was still on his shoulder, weighing him down. He thought he might float away if Kaladin let go, swept out on the avalanche of passion encompassed in Kaladin’s words. 

“They’re coming back, gancho,” Lopen called from his position high on the barricade. The crew looked up, their euphoric mood turning sour around the edges as fear crept in. They were not trained soldiers. They were not spearmen. They didn’t fight. They carried bridges. But here they were, clutching spears and spitting defiance at an army. 

Kaladin looked at Moash. Moash took a deep breath and nodded. The fire in Kaladin’s eyes grew brighter and he nodded, too. 

“Then let’s meet them,” he growled, and Bridge Four cheered.

.

They lost Dabbid first. 

No one saw it happen, and everyone was shocked when, after the last soldier who had made it over the barricade was gurgling out his last breath and the others were streaming back to their hastily erected lines in retreat from the ferocity of the bridgemen, they discovered the body pinned to the ground by a spear. Dabbid’s listless eyes were wide in shock, his hand wrapped loosely around the spear as if he had been trying to pull it out of his chest as he’d died. They stood in a daze, the afterglow of their victory fading as fast as the evening. 

Rock eased the spear out gently and tossed it aside, as far from Dabbid as possible. He and Skar lifted the body carefully, and stood helplessly for a moment. Kaladin opened the door to the barrack and led them inside. There was a cot at the back that had somehow escaped becoming part of the barricade, and the two squadleaders laid Dabbid down. Moash scrounged a ragged blanket from a corner and shook it out before gently laying it over their friend, their first casualty. It was not unusual for bridgemen to die. They all knew that. But not Dabbid. He’d suffered so much already, he wasn’t supposed to die as well. They bowed their heads in silence for a moment, and then Sigzil suggested that they clear away the soldiers’ bodies, and quickly. They didn’t know when the army would make another foray against their barricade, and they needed room to fight if they breached it again. 

They all trickled outside and began shifting the corpses. They perked up a bit, the rush of their victory—no matter how brief—returning as they saw the bloody evidence of their conflict. It was then they discovered they’d also lost Mart. He was crushed under a hulk of a man who’d broken off his spear in Mart’s side. Eth’s scream of grief was the most painful sound Kaladin had ever heard. He watched, transfixed, as Eth cradled his brother’s head, refusing to let go. He snarled when the others moved forward to place Mart with Dabbid in the back of the barrack, and they backed off. They stood in a loose semi-circle, at a loss for what to do, how to comfort him. Kaladin’s vision blurred, and he was back in a hollow in the ground for a moment and he swayed as a wave of remembered pain washed over him.  _Tien_. 

Moash caught him before he fell, worry clouding his face. He dragged Kaladin away from the others and sat him against the barricade. He knelt in front of him, checking him for wounds, desperately searching for any sign of blood in the fast-fading light. 

“I’m fine,” Kaladin murmured. “I’m fine, Moash, I swear.”

“Where are you hurt?” Moash demanded, and Kaladin was surprised to see just how worried Moash was. 

“I’m not hurt,” he said firmly. “Moash, I’m not hurt, I just…was remembering something…horrible. I’ll be fine.” He caught Moash’s frantic gaze and smiled weakly. “I’m fine.” Moash shook his head as if to clear it, and sat back on his heels. Kaladin sighed and leaned his head back against the rough surface of the bridge. He could feel Moash’s gaze still on him, not believing that he was okay. 

“I didn’t think you cared that much,” he said finally. Moash started. 

“I…of course I do. We all do. We can’t do this without you, Kal, you’re our leader, you inspire us. You made us care, not just about each other but about ourselves. We were all ready to die on Parshendi arrows and for what? I doubt even that would have ended the suffering, but we were so downtrodden we didn’t even have the strength to  _think_  we could save ourselves. And then you came along, and…you showed us how to be better men, better versions of ourselves. We can’t see that without you, Kal. We need you. I need you.”

Kaladin opened his mouth to respond, but was lost for words. He hadn’t realized they saw him as a symbol, as a burning brand to lead them through their night. He hadn’t realized that they didn’t know he was just a man. Hadn’t today’s battle shown them that? He had lost Dabbid and Mart, and Eth was a wreck, and it was his fault. Didn’t they see that it was his fault, that he couldn’t protect them all, that he couldn’t save them all? He glanced over at the others, who were gathered around the fire and, though subdued by the deaths they had suffered, were looking at him with worry and with confidence. With hope. 

“So, don’t you dare die on us, Kal,” Moash said furiously. “Storms, don’t you dare die.” He disappeared into the barrack before Kaladin could say anything, and Kaladin had the strangest idea that Moash wasn’t telling him something. 

.

The night was long and tense. No one slept, knowing that at any second the army besieging them could attack again. They all sat in terrified silence as dusk faded away into true night, and it wasn’t long before Rock declared he’d had enough and set the stewpot on the fire. The men gathered around gratefully, speaking quietly about things they had never really talked about before. All their discussions previously had been about freedom, about justice, about not being bridgemen anymore. Tonight, they talked about who they had been before they became bridgemen, and what they were going to do after they stopped. 

Sigzil had been a Worldsinger. He spoke wistfully of places he had been and places he had yet to go. He wanted to visit the Reshi Isles. He wanted to wade in the Purelake. He hadn’t been to Vedenar in years. Maybe he would go there first. Maybe he would go find his teacher and give him all the stories he had collected since they’d separated. Maybe he would visit home. 

Rock would go to his family, and eat proper stew and breath the clear air of the Peaks. 

Teft wanted to visit Kharbranth. He’d heard it was the most beautiful city…all those bells. He said nothing of who he had been or where he’d come from, but he wouldn’t go back there. He wanted something new, a fresh start. Though at his age, he joked, it was getting a little late for new beginnings. 

Maps would go home. His lady was still waiting for him, he said. If he waited long enough, maybe he could buy her out of slavery. 

Drehy didn’t say where he wanted to go after they’d won their freedom, but he looked across the fire at Leyten, and when Leyten talked wistfully of opening his own forge in some tiny, out of the way village somewhere, he nodded more to himself than anyone else. He said he’d take Kaladin’s training and maybe open up a surgery. Maybe it would also be in an out of the way village somewhere. Leyten didn’t say anything, but he blushed. When he stood up to get more stew, he sat down next to Drehy instead of back where he had been sitting on the other side of the fire. 

Earless Jaks joked that he would get himself drunk and arrested for thievery before he managed to get out of Alethkar. He wondered if maybe becoming a sailor was out of the question. You didn’t need ears for the sea to love you, after all. She took all kinds. 

Skar would go home. 

So would Hobber. Torfin. Yake. 

All they wanted to do was go home. 

Lopen laughed at all of them and said he would go wherever Kaladin went. There was a general murmur of agreement that rippled around the fire like a shiver. They would follow him to the edge of the world, if that’s where he wanted to go. They would stand with him against the next Desolation. They would fight a highstorm with him. And if he wanted to go home and put his feet up on the hearth and sing old warsongs into the winter nights, well then, storms, they’d do that, too. All of them. Even Eth, who had sat still and silent where they’d set him down after pulling him away from Mart’s body. Even Eth, who had silent tears still running down his face. Even Eth, whose brother Kaladin had failed to protect. 

They all looked at him, and smiled at him, and watched him. He failed to smile back. He stood up suddenly and disappeared into the night, the darkness between the fire and the barricade swallowing him up. They stared after him, then at each other. 

“Where’s he going?” Skar asked quietly. 

“To check on the other barricades,” Teft said confidently, more confidently than he felt. “He’ll be back.”

No one spoke much after that. They huddled closer to the light and pulled their ragged vests tighter around their shoulders, suddenly frightened of the night around them. Suddenly worried that the army would attack them while their leader was away, and that they would not be able to fight and win without him. No one voiced this concern, but they were all thinking it. 

Moash took his turn at the watchpost at the top of the barricade, but he spent more time watching for Kaladin’s return than he did watching the soldiers for movement. He hadn’t said anything about what he wanted to do after they’d won their freedom. He hadn’t said that he didn’t want to do anything with his freedom but follow Kaladin. Lopen had said it first, but Moash meant it. Kaladin was a gravitational pull on his heart, and he  _couldn’t_  leave him. He hadn’t said that there was no point, really, to freedom if Kaladin wasn’t there. 

He hadn’t said what he feared Kaladin knew: that there would be no freedom. He hadn’t said that the reason Kaladin had stood up and left the fire was because their shining leader had realized that they could not win this fight, that they could not stand so few against an entire army, that they could not win their freedom. Kaladin had left because he could not bear to see his men making plans and dreaming hopes when he knew full well that he had led them down a path that would allow them no future. Moash hadn’t said that he saw all this in the flickers of pain that crossed Kaladin’s eyes, dimming the fires that were usually so constant there. He hadn’t said he agreed.

.

Kaladin reappeared at daybreak. The army had not stirred throughout the night, not wanting to waste precious hours of sleep on fighting bridgemen. Bridge Four had eventually dropped off, one by one, to sleep, though it was a universally uneasy sleep, and they all tossed and turned and clutched their spears as if fighting off their dreams. Maybe they were. 

Moash was on watch again when Kaladin returned, eyes thunderous, smoldering. Angry. He climbed up over the barricade from the side, as if he’d just come from Bridge Three’s barricade, and he made no effort to hide his arrival. The men roused themselves, suddenly tense and alert, as if nervousness was catching. Kaladin stopped by Moash and put a hand on his shoulder, and Moash was shocked to find his leader shaking. 

“We’re the only ones left,” he murmured, almost too quietly. Moash’s eyes widened in shock, and he shook his head in disbelief. 

“What?” he said. The others turned, worry spreading across their faces as if a highstorm had appeared on the horizon without warning. 

“We’re the only ones left,” Kaladin repeated, louder. Mutters from the crew. Eth dropped his spear. Sigzil sat down heavily. Teft closed his eyes. 

“How?” Skar choked out. “How could they?” Kaladin shook his head.

“It’s not…” he paused, taking a deep breath. “It’s not their fault.” He had not removed his hand from Moash’s shoulder, steadying himself. Kaladin didn’t need steadying. He was an immovable pillar of strength. Moash was frightened, properly frightened for the first time. 

“It’s not their fault,” Kaladin repeated. “They… The reason the army didn’t attack us last night is that they were busy attacking everyone else. They must have attacked as soon as it was dark. By the time I got there, they were…” He met Moash’s eyes, and there was panic there for a moment, true desperation. “They’re all dead,” he whispered. “They killed them all.” 

“What do you mean?” Sigzil said, standing, furious. “Surely some of them surrendered, surely some of them are captured. We can form a rescue, we can get them out, we can—”

“No,” Kaladin said, “I counted. Every last one of them. Bridge Ten was slaughtered across the top of their bridge; Bridge Seven was…riddled with arrows, it was like they been lined up after a surrender and picked off one by one. Bridge One had tried to lock themselves in their barrack, and they burned them, there’s nothing but a smoking wreck, they must have brought in a soulcaster to turn the crem to fire, I don’t know.” He trailed off. There was a long silence. After what seemed like an age, there was a shout in the distance—a soldier, on the other side of the barricade, rousing the army. Getting ready to attack. 

Kaladin straightened, his hand dropping away from Moash. He hefted his spear and his eyes grew hard. His mouth pressed into an angry line, and he strode across the yard to yank their banner from where Moash had planted it in the barricade yesterday. 

“Not you,” he said, quietly at first, and then louder, “ _Not you._  I will not let them destroy us! We will not go down without a fight. We are not the cowards of Bridge Seven, we will not surrender! We will not hide in our bedroom and wait to suffocate in the ruins like Bridge One! We are Bridge Four; we are strong! They will not defeat us so easily!” 

There was a single moment of fear and doubt and silence. Kaladin stood, breathing heavily, the red flag raised above his head, waiting. Defiance dying in his eyes. Then Rock bent and picked up the spear that had killed Dabbid. He ran his hands along it’s unfamiliar length, his fingers tightening around the leather grip. He pressed his finger to the sharp tip until it drew blood, and traced a glyph onto Teft’s forehead, right where slave brands usually went. _Freedom_. 

Rock raised his spear above his head, and turned to face Kaladin. “Bridge Four,” he said, his voice strong, deep, proud. He was not afraid. He did not put down the spear. 

There was a sudden roar as every one of them repeated the cry, shouting it over and over until it was a cheer. They took turns drawing the glyph on each other’s foreheads, sharing blood, becoming brothers. Moash did Kaladin’s, and their leader met his eyes, pressed his hand to Moash’s cheek he whispered, “You are not allowed to die, either, understand?” Moash leaned into that hand, the warmth of it flooding him for a second before he nodded and Kaladin pulled away, climbing to the apex of the barricade, waving their banner above his head, raining defiance down on the soldiers who amassed below. Moash wondered if the army saw Kaladin as he did, fierce, beautiful, dangerous, vulnerable. He wondered if they, too, trembled. 

.

“You at the barricade, listen to this!” 

The shout from the other side of the bridge brought everyone into focus. Heads snapped up, spears were gripped tighter, fighting stances were taken. Kaladin, who had climbed down the barricade when a few feeble arrows began zipping in his direction climbed back up again to peer out over the top. He swore at whatever it was he saw. The rest of the crew pressed themselves to the barricade, peeking through holes or risking a swift glance over the top. Torol Sadeas himself was standing, in full shardplate, at the head of what looked like half the army. A sergeant was shouting again, harnessing their attention. 

“Listen! No one is coming to help you! All your other bridges are dead. Give up! Surrender and we will let you live!”

Teft scoffed. There were angry mutters. 

“Did you let Bridge Seven live, after they surrendered?” Kaladin shouted back. “Those arrows were fired in the heat of battle, were they?” 

“Listen to me, bridgeman.” Sadeas himself spoke up, his voice booming across the barricade that separated them. “You are worthless and your usefulness has run its course. I will not hesitate to kill you and all your men and stake your corpses to the side of your barracks as an example to the next pathetic slaves who waste space within their walls. I can always find more men desperate enough to take your place. You are nothing, and you cannot succeed in this idiotic rebellion. I will crush you.”

Kaladin waited until the brightlord had stopped. He watched the faces of his men as they realized what Sadeas said was true. He watched as their eyes filled first with fear, then with anger, then with fierce, fierce determination. He locked eyes with every one of them for just a moment and they all nodded. Even Rock, who had refused to fight. Even Eth. Even Lopen. His eyes lingered on Moash for a moment longer, and his second in command tapped his spear once on the ground. 

He raised his voice. “Better to be dead and free of this hell than live one more day in slavery.” Sadeas growled, and Kaladin grinned. 

“I’m sorry,” Kaladin said, lowering his voice again. “I’m sorry that I could not save you, that I could not protect you. I am sorry…” he trailed off. Moash stamped his spear down again, and Kaladin glanced at him. 

“If we die, we die with you, Kal,” he said. “There is no greater honor.”

“Bridge Four,” Rock rumbled. The rest of the crew echoed. “We fight,” Rock said simply. A statement of fact. This is who they were now. This is what they did. Once they were shells of men who had carried a bridge for lesser men to cross. Once they were dead things that barely managed to walk and yet were forced to run. Now, they fought. They fought for freedom; they fought for each other. 

“We fight until we are free,” Moash said. 

“Until we are free,” Teft repeated. 

“Until we are free.” 

“And if freedom comes in the form of the Almighty welcoming us home, so be it, gancho,” Lopen said, and his eyes were laughing. “And if we all end up in hell, we’ll fight there, too. We’ll fight until they let us into the Tranquiline Halls themselves.” 

And Bridge Four roared and lifted up their spears, and braced themselves, and the soldiers charged. 

.

The barricade was burning. Kaladin somehow had not anticipated that. The bridge was indestructible. But here it was, on fire, the smoke curling up into the sky in patterns that were so beautiful he wanted to scream. The barricade was burning, and the army had broken through, and he couldn’t protect them. The bridge was burning, bridge four was burning…without the bridge, what were they?

They were storytellers. (Sigzil was a scientist, an historian, a teller of tales. He scrounged paper from the thinnest shavings of lumber and told stories in glyphs and pictures. He told them about far away lands, cultures they could not comprehend, places they could never dream of. He’d written the story of Bridge Four in blood on the walls of the barrack. He fell with a burning arrow in his throat, gasping, choking, unable to scream through the blood pooling around his tongue.) 

They were cooks. (Rock, who had never used a spear in his life, who had refused to use a spear, who had remained true to himself and his heritage through even the worst possible storm, who Kaladin had promised would never have to fight, fought like the devil incarnate. Rock, whose true name was an unpronounceable to Alethi tongues as the language of fire, screamed warcries from the Peaks into the terrified faces of the soldiers who dared to approach him. Rock, whose stew was the first unifying force the bridgemen had experienced, whose cooking had brought them back to life, whose spices had saved them from the brink of self-destruction, swept his spear in front of him like a blind man sweeps to be sure his path is clear. Rock killed eight soldiers before the ninth threw his spear like a javelin and the tip broke off in Rock’s heart. The monument of strength and gentleness that was the red-haired Horeater fell with thunder and shook the ground beneath the barricade with his death throes.)

They were soldiers. (Teft had trained them all to fight. A sergeant at heart, and a good one at that, he taught them all how to hold their spears, where to set their feet, when to strike. He had been patient and thorough and he had taught them how to survive. Kaladin might have been their guiding light in the storm, but Teft was their sergeant and they understood all he had done for them. They never learned where he came from, but storms they were glad he’d ended up here with them. He was a whirlwind, his spear a blur as he danced among his students, killing any who threatened an unprotected back. He was one of the last to be cut down, his age finally catching up to him as his strikes and thrusts became slower and slower and his breath came faster and heavier and he was too slow to block a thrust from a soldier half his age. He cried out once as he fell before gritting his teeth and bleeding out in perfect silence, never showing a hint of weakness. As good a sergeant as there ever was.)

They were romantics. (Maps died clutching a grubby handkerchief that had once been white, ragged embroidery in one corner that had once spelled out the initials of the woman he loved. He died with her name on his lips, breathing out one last promise that he would return for her, someday, if it was the last thing he ever did.)

They were lovers. (Leyten took an arrow in the thigh almost before the battle had properly begun. He broke off the shaft with a grimace and stood on one leg, fierce as a wounded whitespine. Drehy was a wall of violence around him, a spear in each hand as he protected that which he held most dear. An arrow burried itself in his chest, and he roared and kept fighting. A spear buried itself in his stomach and he fell, disbelief in his eyes. Leyten screamed and threw his own spear at the man who had killed Drehy, the head he had forged himself flying true into the man’s throat. Leyten fell with the effort, toppling over, and Drehy, with the last of his strength, rolled over to catch him. They whispered unfulfilled plans for their house in the tiny out-of-the-way village to each other as their blood seeped out to stain the ground together. They died holding hands.)

They were sailors. (Earless Jaks had his throat cut, and drowned in a sea of his own blood. He never had learned to swim.)

They were giants.  (Skar stood at the top of the barricade, a bastion of defense, raining down blows upon any who dared to climb. He did not notice when his sandals caught fire, when that fire spread to his legs, curling up his flesh like a cat. He remained, his legs shaking until a soldier scooped up an arrow and drove it down through his foot. Skar buckled then, and fought on his knees, screaming out that he was free. Kaladin wasn’t sure whether it was the fire or some wound that claimed him. But the scent of burning flesh stuck in the back of his throat with all the tears he would not—could not—shed.)

They were dreamers. (Hobber fought like a hurricane until his legs were cut from under him, his hamstrings slashed. Torfin and Yake were backed into a corner and overwhelmed. Peet was slammed against the burning barricade, his face held to the flames until he screamed. Narm lost the hand holding his spear. Arik was pierced by at least five arrows. They all declared their freedom with their final breaths, eyes on the banner they had stitched out of rotten blankets and dyed in their own blood. They died with freedom written on their foreheads and falling from their tongues and oozing from their veins.)

They were family. (Lopen was not meant to be there. Out of all of them, Lopen was the one who was truly not meant to be there. He was able to make them laugh just by smiling. His jokes were terrible, but it didn’t matter because he _joked_. Bridgecrews were the place where merriment went to die a quick, painful death, but Lopen made them laugh. Lopen, who held his spear in his one hand and shouted nonsense at his attackers, was meant to be somewhere where he would survive, where he would live to see his massive family again, where he would bring Bridge Four to his family and enfold them into it as easily as folding a chouta. They cut off his other arm and when he threw himself at them anyway, they stabbed him over and over until he would never smile again.)

They were brothers. (Eth fought with tears streaming down his face. He stood in the doorway to the barrack and killed any who dared to approach, any who tried to get past. Even now, he protected Mart, his brother lying cold on the only cot left in the dark, cool room behind him. He was the last of them to die, snarling and mad with more cuts than Kaladin could count. He stumbled as he lashed out at a soldier who was standing just out of his range. He sank to one knee, lightheaded from bloodloss, and when he fell, he was reaching back into the shadows, back toward his brother, and his final breath was a sob.)

They were brothers. Kaladin watched them all die. He swept through the enemy like a highstorm, tearing them to pieces. His spear was terrifyingly accurate, slicing exactly where it would cause the most damage. His father had taught him anatomy too well. He was bathed in blood, could taste it on his tongue, but still he kept going. He saved them all at least once, stopping a blow to Teft’s back, blocking a sweep to Skar’s legs, catching an arrow aimed for Drehy’s chest. But it meant nothing. There were too many, there was too much, and he could not be everywhere at once, and one by one they fell. The ground was awash in blood and the air was filled with smoke and Kaladin was everywhere and nowhere and he saved them all but it didn’t matter. They still died. 

And it was his fault. 

.

Moash thrust his spear into the stomach of a man who had been about to slice Kaladin’s head off, and when Kaladin turned from killing an archer taking aim at Eth, Moash almost smiled at him. They didn’t say anything; there was nothing to say. As Eth stretched finally toward his brother, and Skar’s body toppled off the barricade, and the soldiers all turned to surround the only two bridgemen who remained standing, Kaladin and Moash turned back to back, their spears leveled at their enemies, their throats tight with unshed tears and strangled warcries, their eyes full of determination born from desperation, and for just a second their hands touched and they were going to make it out of this alive. And then Torol Sadeas strode out of the smoke to stand before them, and the blood of Bridge Four was staining the mud under their feet, and Kaladin’s spear was broken and Moash had a cut in his thigh and the moment passed. 

Moash turned to look at Kaladin, to see the fire in his eyes one last time. The avenging angel that had stood on the barricade the day before was dimmed behind the ghosts of all they had lost, and the grim leader who had raised his spear and promised them he would not let them die was one of the ghosts. But Kaladin looked at Moash and the man who had pressed his hand to his cheek and forbade him to die was burning deep in his eyes, and Moash nodded. 

“Do you allow it?” Moash asked quietly. Kaladin’s lip twitched as if he might have smiled, and the steel in his eyes softened. 

“You do not have my permission to die, bridgeman,” Sadeas said. “I want the satisfaction of  _punishing_  you first.”

“I am not asking for  _your_  permission,” Moash spat. He threw his spear aside and straightened as much as his injured leg would allow. Kaladin threw his own broken spear at his feet and reached up behind himself, ripping the burning remains of their banner down. He held out his hand, wrapped in their stained, bloody flag, the glyphpair that had once spelled  _freedom_  ripped down the middle. Moash smiled and took Kaladin’s hand. They raised the flag between them, and Sadeas lunged, snarling. He lifted his greatsword and swept the blade down through Moash’s torso. The squadleader did not cry out, but Kaladin did, and the last thing Moash heard was the grief, shock, and rage of his leader, and though he could no longer feel his hand, he knew his fingers still gripped Kaladin’s as he fell. 

Kaladin turned with a snarl of his own to face Sadeas. Weaponless, without ally, his hand dangling uselessly and tangled in his ragged flag and Moash’s dead fingers, he turned anyway, defiance in his eyes, resilience on his tongue. He burned with the fire of rebellion, the beautiful inferno that is victory in defeat, the glow that every Herald knows all too well. Sadeas did not recognize it, and ended it without second thought. All it took was a thrust to the heart. 

When the Heralds died, they were chained in hell, the burning torture chamber at the heart of hatred. They were whipped with their own strength, flayed by their own ideals, burned until they were reduced to gasping things that clutched to one simple idea that sustained them. For Nalan, it was justice. For Jezrien, it was honor. For Ishar, unity. For Shalash, truth. In their defeat, though, they had saved the world, and they each clung to their own facet of this victory as they awaited the next Desolation. 

As the numbness spread through Kaladin from his heart, and as his eyes burned with tears he could not shed, he clung to the knowledge that whatever awaited him could not be worse than any bridgerun he had been forced to face. Nothing beyond this life could weigh as much as the bridge that had borne Dunny’s body to the pyre, no fire could sting worse than the lashing rain of a highstorm, and no punishment could be greater than the deaths of Bridge Four, every one of them who had died before he did. His death was his escape, and even if he went into the teeth of Desolation itself, he had won. His body fell across the bridge that had been his death sentence and his refuge, and the flag stained red with his blood fluttered from his numb fingers, the glyphpair twisting in a sudden wind until it once again spelled out  _freedom_. 

.

**Author's Note:**

> I WOULD LIKE TO THANK THE COPPERMIND WITHOUT WHOM THIS STORY WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE. SERIOUSLY THE BRIDGE FOUR PAGE WAS A LIFESAVER YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Also I find it /horrifically/ appropriate that as I posted this the track that my iTunes decided to play was 'Now We Are Free' from the Gladiator soundtrack. aha. haha. ha. thanks iTunes. I'm going to go hide in a corner for the rest of my life now.


End file.
